Every Breath You Take
by Stephane Richer
Summary: I look around but it's you I can't replace. I feel so cold and I long for your embrace.


Every Breath You Take

Disclaimer: I own neither Copeland's recording of "Every Breath You Take" nor Ai Yazawa's _Nana_

He shouldn't have been surprised.

All along, he had been there, the elephant in the room that she refused to talk about, backing her up with his instrumentation. He was convinced, sometimes, that he was hers. Asleep, she would move closer to him. She would smile. And then she would murmur that name, cutting through him to the bone like a katana, drawn not by a true samurai but a heartless feudal lord.

He was her first, but not really. Physical contact was one thing, emotional contact was another. He read her thoughts acutely, to be sure, but he read everyone's. And, like anyone else, he could fool himself. People did crazy, foolish things when they were in love.

If this was love, then he didn't want any part of it. Some people were good people, like his parents, and they could love freely with all their hearts and unafraid of pain. Perhaps he was different than they were. Whether by destiny or his own unwitting choice (did it matter?) he could not be sure, but ahead he did not see anything like that. He wasn't even quite sure about his future in other aspects—he was studying to be a lawyer while playing shows with Brute, and neither seemed particularly appealing to him. Well, something might come of either path, or perhaps he'd choose a third option. But it didn't matter.

She had not chosen him. It was inevitable. She had no chance, but she didn't care—after all, what else could she do?

He could never make her happy. What could she stand to gain as the wife of a lawyer or a drummer, anyway? It would be quite a few years before he could make decent money—it would be unfair to ask her to wait. Yet, selfishly, he had allowed himself hope. And what about her own dreams? That was something they never talked about.

_He_ was her dream. Being with him, singing for him, having him love her. It was really that simple.

Maybe he was just a masochist, just asking to be hurt, and as he moved deeper into the situation he was playing Russian Roulette. Every kiss was a spin of the magazine, every touch a click of the trigger. And finally, his luck had run out. An ultimatum had been reached, and he was left here with his own choice: throw away his pride, everything he had ever worked for, for a girl (no, woman) who did not love him and never had? Or stay while they played out the pantomime, maybe hurt her a little (even he, rational and good-hearted, could be hot-blooded) with the revelation that everyone would not always bend over backward for her, even when they cared for her?

Everyone was fucked up in his or her own way. Everyone around him, himself, perhaps even his parents. Or, at least, at some point in their lives they had been. Maybe someday he could be normal.

She was special. She would always be singled out for her beauty, her gorgeous voice, that ethereal quality she had. And she probably chose what was right for her, if for the wrong reason. But what did intentions matter? Intentions never saved or damned anyone. What would truly save her would be getting out of this godforsaken little northern town. Even Tokyo would not be a big enough stage for her, but it would be a damn good start.

The bed was too big, the afternoons too empty, the air too silent, without her.

He devoted every free second of his life to drums and drinking, but still, she haunted him. He tasted her lips in the sake, felt her hair through his fingers, though they became more and more calloused. He lay awake at night, desperately focusing on the material in his textbooks. He slept with his groupies, remembered all of their names and bodies and yet none of them really mattered.

Nothing mattered without her. He set his hopes on those of others, did things for them. They needed help; he could offer it. If he was going to be an angsty bastard, he'd better damn well be useful on top of that.

Sitting on the ledge alone with a cigarette was nothing without her. If he closed his eyes, he could hear her voice in the wind. The sea-salt smell was bittersweet in his nose. When would they debut? He was sure he would know when. Then, her voice would be real, coming from some middle-aged worker's boom box radio or a teenager's tinny pocket-sized receiver or a pensioner's tape deck. He would hear her all around him, clearly instead of feebly. He wouldn't want to scream, but feel less lonely.

Some things were not meant to be. Some choices would always be made a certain way. That was life, unfair and twisted, though he had been given his share of endowments, which could be burdens in their own way, but were nonetheless much more than others would ever have. A controlling bastard like that had many, many visible faults, but he was intelligent and crafty and a skilled musician. And, of course, he had a shitty childhood, so why shouldn't he have her love? Why shouldn't he deserve it?

The ashes fell from the cigarette butt into the sand. He was just as bad. Conniving, secretive, nosy, incredibly unhealthy. The sun shone off the water and directly at his face, and he almost thought he saw her. If he wasn't wearing sunglasses, he definitely would have.

Perhaps, one day...but, no. Even if they were to meet again...

She might forget him. Probably not, but it was still a possibility. He might fade into some fuzzy half-imagined person in her mind, just another old flame. Perhaps the pain would lessen, and perhaps he would love another woman someday, but he would not, could not forget her. Not when she was everywhere.


End file.
